Able Three Seven
by JPH3
Summary: An A/U in which seminal events of the 1960s change the lives of the characters from the show. Will it be for better or worse? I hope you all enjoy this but those looking for 'sitcom' won't find it here. C&C welcome. Pairing: Tony/Jeannie
1. Moose and Squirrel

**ABLE THREE-SEVEN**

_**A Romance**_

Disclaimer: The TV series _**'I Dream of Jeannie'**_ is the property of its creators / copyright holders - Sidney Sheldon's Estate, Screen Gems, CPT Holdings, NBC and/or Sony Television. If I forgot anyone please don't sue…I assure you I'm as poor as a church mouse. This story is written purely as entertainment and is being disseminated for free (I write for fun, not money). There, now that's out of the way. I don't own Tony, Jeannie, Roger and the others…but these are solely my words.

A/N 1: While 'continuity' is a more-or-less alien concept in the Jeannieverse, assume all of season 1 and the first half of season 2 occurred as portrayed. Chapter One (note I said Chapter One) of this story diverges from the series shortly after episode #49 – _You Can't Arrest Me…I Don't Have A Driver's License_.

A/N 2: This is the first installment of my first IDoJ story and I admit up-front that I'm a little nervous about how it'll be received. It's different, it's not particularly comedic, and turning sitcom characters into serialized drama characters without altering their personalities has proven close to impossible. In short, all the characters are a little more serious and mature, both emotionally and in how they relate to one another. As it stands, I think you'll still recognize them; they're acting like adults but I firmly believe their comedy counterparts also would when confronted with life-changing circumstances. Unfortunately, if you're looking forward to pratfalls you're likely to be disappointed. Sorry about that. 

**Prologue**

"_**Moose and Squirrel"**_

_Above Ha Noi Tinh (Hanoi), North Vietnam – 17 August 1967_

Lieutenant-Colonel Ganya Nureyev, on detached duty from the _Frontovaya Aviatsiya, _the Frontal Aviation arm of the Soviet Air Force, yawned and pulled his fighter into a long, slow turn over the capital for his second pass of the day, idly scanning the horizon for any hints of movement. Not that he really expected anything major…American warplanes almost exclusively concentrated their efforts farther south, and his bosses at the embassy didn't have the stomach to risk one of their own in a direct confrontation…but there was always the chance something would turn up. On top of that, he simply enjoyed flying; even if he did have to ride herd over a gaggle of Vietnamese pilot-trainees as an excuse to do so.

Still, he figured he couldn't complain. Officially that was his function; training the natives to fly the MiG-21, code-named 'Fishbed' by his nation's capitalist rivals. The most advanced fighter in the Soviet export arsenal, it was, at least by specification, a better match against the F-4 Phantoms the Americans flew than the subsonic MiG-15s and MiG-17s the locals favored. And, since there was nothing quite like demonstrative instruction, he took every opportunity he could to fly alongside his charges. Usually it was dull work. With the exception of the occasional Wild Weasel raid against Hanoi's surface-to-air missile installations, opportunities to demonstrate true 'hands-on' techniques were few. Flying F-105 Thunderchiefs…very fast but not-very-nimble aircraft better suited to engaging ground emplacements than aerial combat…the Weasels habitually darted in, fired a few anti-radar missiles at the SAM sites, and bolted south again at the first sign of a MiG interceptor. Not much challenge for an officer trained to go toe-to-toe against the top NATO pilots in Europe.

_Nyet,_ the Soviet pilot groused to himself, _the Yankees are just as reluctant to expand this foolishness as our masters in Moscow…at least as long as Comrade Ho keeps his regular forces tacitly out of the conflict between the illegitimate government in the South and his Viet Cong surrogates. _ This made sense from a strategic perspective, but he found it difficult to train his pilots when their first taste of real combat didn't happen until they were sent south…which only occurred after they were out from under his tutelage. Most of the time his 'graduates' acquitted themselves well, but their losses were still too high.

But there was another opportunity that occasionally presented itself, and it was in the hopes of this that he was loitering today. The Weasels had struck yesterday and sometimes, when the Yankees were unsure about their battle damage assessments, they would follow-up a strike with a reconnaissance flight just to double-check. For such a minor raid they wouldn't risk a U-2 spy plane. Instead, they would send a specially-outfitted Phantom; one with a photo-reconnaissance package rather than weapons.

Glancing around, he surveyed the three trainees flying formation with him. Still unfamiliar with their new aircraft, they weren't ready for combat yet and a reconnaissance fighter…an RF-4, as the Yankees designated it…would offer them the perfect opportunity to practice against a comparable foe without worrying about being shot down. Despite being unarmed the RF-4s weren't easy targets; all Phantom variants were tough birds and the pilots chosen to fly recon were the best. They had to be…they often flew unescorted and talent in the cockpit was the only weapon they had. The best outcome for them in a fight was that they lived to take pictures another day.

Circling around for his third pass, Nureyev was starting to pay more attention to his fuel situation…MiG-21s were notorious gas hogs…when Hanoi Ground Intercept, the control center that vectored interceptors to enemy combatants, reported an inbound hostile. Even if he hadn't been listening, the SA-2 missile launch plumes and the black smoke created by 57-millimeter antiaircraft shells detonating in the sky south of Hanoi and would've instantly told him where the action was.

It looked like he and his trainees were in luck today after all. Switching to the internal frequency monitored by the other MiGs flying formation with him, he began issuing engagement instructions. Hopefully, the duck-hunters wouldn't bag the prize before they joined in.

***

By the time Colonel Nureyev reached the area Ground Intercept vectored him to, he could immediately see he would have no trouble finding his foe; the lone Phantom was already in trouble. Having apparently suffered a glancing blow from a missile, the fighter was trailing thick, gray smoke from one engine and had gone nap of the earth in an attempt to conceal its retreat to the south.

The Soviet smiled grimly. It was tough to sneak away when leaving such a trail of bread crumbs behind. If the two trainees he'd told to separate from him followed his instructions…a big 'if' with the natives, sometimes…the Yankee would find his southern escape route cut off. His only other option at that point would be to run for the Gulf of Tonkin…if he lasted that long. Given the damage the twin-engine fighter was apparently sporting, Nureyev would easily overtake it before it went feet wet.

Under most circumstances, that's when the dance would begin…but the Russian had his trainees to consider. If he just swooped in, he would score a quick kill but doing so would do nothing to improve their skills. With that in mind, he adjusted his intercept path slightly and throttled up to make a high-speed pass near the fleeing jet rather than a gun run. If the American was, indeed, a damaged reconnaissance plane, he would loop away, summon his native comrades and critique their performance as they took it down. If it turned out that the Phantom was an armed version, he would take it himself.

As he powered past the enemy jet, the missile damage it had suffered was easily identifiable. The port side air intake looked as if a giant's fist had pounded it into scrap and the corresponding engine…starved for oxygen…had flamed out. With half its thrust gone, the aircraft could remain airborne but it wasn't going anywhere quickly. More importantly, its elongated nose – specifically designed to house a camera package – identified it as an RF-4. So it was safe to call in his students. Should they bungle the kill...as they probably would, given their level of proficiency…he would stay near enough to quickly finish the job. Just as he was about to tell his wingman to make the first pass, however, another feature of the plane caught his eye…one that immediately made him hesitate.

American pilots who'd achieved notoriety were a cocky lot and many of them, the Soviet knew, personalized their aircraft. 'Nose Art', they called it. From an operational security perspective it was a bad practice…it made a pilot identifiable to his adversaries…but they seemed not to care. Renderings of scantily-clad women… wives, girlfriends, mistresses, even juvenile fantasies…abounded, along with witty names, cartoon characters and other symbolic totems. It was even rumored that Soviet Military Intelligence, the GRU, maintained a nose art database.

This American craft was no different; its pilot's artistic signature was, in fact, well-known to him. Indeed, thanks to the massive amount of publicity surrounding his arrival in-country six months prior, it was familiar to every MiG-driver in Vietnam. "A beautiful blonde in pink harem girl attire holding aloft a purple bottle," Nureyev muttered to himself, barely able to contain his glee. "Oh, today is a good day for me," he contentedly sighed. "I have wanted to meet you for a long time now…comrade Astronaut."

***

_Six months__ down…_ Major Anthony Nelson sighed to himself, only half paying attention as he pre-flighted his aircraft and waited for his GIB, his guy-in-back, to show up on the tarmac. As usual, the young imagery specialist was late, but he didn't mind. Today he couldn't find it in himself to mind about much of anything; he'd hit the official six-month mark in-country and in a few days he'd be taking leave. It wasn't quite the Freedom Bird…just a one-week mid-tour break in Hawaii…but he'd flown so many missions since arriving in this godforsaken place that he'd take any opportunity to relax that came his way.

Coming around the tail of his Phantom he checked the landing gear and the underside of the wing one last time as he moved forward, finally stopping at the ladder to the cockpit. There, reclining rather seductively on a stylized pink cloud, his plane's namesake…the work of his artistically-inclined crew chief…seemed to smile down at him from the side of the fuselage. "Good morning, Jeannie," he affectionately murmured, reaching up and pressing his palm against the blonde's cheek, "you ready for our magic carpet ride today? Sure you are; you want me to get to Honolulu, right? Well, darling, you and I fly one more mission and the next time my feet leave the ground I'll be in a first-class seat on Pan-Am coming to see you. I miss you."

Someone cleared his throat behind him. "Sweet-talking the plane again, sir?" his back-seater, Lieutenant Don 'Duck' Dunnock, remarked with a snicker once he had Tony's attention. "Hey, don't stop on my account," he continued with a nonchalant wave, "we used to talk to the horses back on the ranch like that. If it helps you keep me in the land of the living, go ahead and chat Ali Baba's honey-pie up all you want. If she starts answering, though…uh, just keep it to yourself, okay?"

Tony managed an amused snort. That wasn't going to happen, but the young man had no idea how easily it could. If he hadn't forced Jeannie to 'djinn promise' she'd stay out of Vietnam, his Phantom likely would've wound up as the only haunted warbird in Southeast Asia. It was a strong promise…a djinn risked fading into Limbo if he or she broke it…but, knowing Jeannie, she'd push herself to the precipice looking for loopholes. And if she found any, she'd exploit them. With that in mind, he regularly combed through the aircraft looking for signs of djinni infestation; leftover date pits, little silk-lined sleeping nests, perfume-scented notes that didn't have postmarks…anything that appeared out-of-place. So far, she seemed to be keeping her word and, judging by the regular mail she sent, she was doing surprisingly well on her own.

While she was obviously proud she'd proven she could survive in his world, her correspondence also made clear that she missed him terribly. The autonomy mortals took for granted was an unnatural state for a young 'servant' djinni and she needed his presence…to touch him and hear his voice…to truly feel whole. Recently, she'd also let slip that she was…well, it wasn't 'erotic fantasizing' exactly, but in her last letter she lamented that she'd become so accustomed to sleeping in his bed at home that she wouldn't be comfortable in her bottle in Hawaii. Given that the room he'd reserved in Waikiki was a single and nothing larger was available, she was sure her mathematically-inclined Master would agree that putting one and one together equaled a mutually-satisfying alternative.

As he read that, he could almost hear Jeannie giggling as she wrote it. Salaciousness was new to her bag of tricks and she wasn't very good at it but, bless her heart, in his current condition she didn't need to be. His recent letters to her hadn't been shining exemplars of pure and noble intent, either. It was amazing how six months in a combat zone could weaken one's resolve, but understandable when one's djinni was also such an alluring woman.

Duck was already strapping in. "You saddling up, boss?" he called out, startling Tony out of his reverie. "Staring at your cartoon beauty won't get you any closer to the real one."

"Don't I know it," the astronaut ruefully chuckled, "but at least it reminds me of who I'm fighting to get back to." With a sigh, he hopped up into the cockpit, took his helmet from one of the ground crew and quickly ran through the final pre-flight checks. At the last, he unzipped a pocket of his flight suit and pulled out a small, pink bundle of silk, hanging it and the object it was looped through off to one side.

Watching this little ritual for the hundredth time, Duck shook his head. "For the life of me, I'll never figure out what's so all-fired important about an old rag and a bottle-stopper. What is it? Some sort of rabbit's foot?"

Tony was watching for his ground crew to pull the chocks away from the wheels. "Do you really want to know?" he humorously replied. Taking the object in question down, he removed one of his gloves and carefully twined the translucent material between his fingers. "Well…this rag, as you call it, is a veil. It was worn by a very beautiful Persian woman and is over two-thousand years old. The bottle-stopper…uh, unless you're into Middle Eastern folklore it's a little harder to explain. Let's just say I brought it to ensure a loved one gets to be the master of her own fate if something happens to me."

"Ancient Persian veils and Bedouin legends, huh?" Duck snorted. "I'd say you should seriously be on medication if you hadn't already passed all those NASA psychological tests."

"Who says I passed them?" Tony spookily responded as he hung the charm back on its hook. Smiling mischievously to himself, he paused a second and then added, "I suppose I could've told you that, right now, the beautiful two-thousand year-old Persian woman who owns the veil is curled up on my couch at home nibbling on a TV dinner and watching _Bewitched_. That'd be pretty far out, huh?"

"Yeah…way out…man," the back-seater nervously gulped. "Like totally psychedelic. Uh…sir…you remember what I said about talking to the plane? I take it back. If it does…um, start answering…you need to tell me right away, okay?"

"The next time my lithium fails you'll be the first to know," Tony gently assured him. "Just pray we're not on final approach when it happens." Forestalling further comment, he slipped his glove back on and keyed his mike. "Charlie Niner-Two, this is Able Three-Seven, RF-4C outbound to Hanoi…ready to taxi."

"_Acknowledged, Able…clear to taxi.__" _Rattling off runway instructions and other flight data, the air traffic controller concluded, _"Good luck and good hunting."_

Easing the throttle forward, the astronaut-turned-pilot remarked, "Alright, young lady…time for us to go downtown and take a few happy snaps for the wise men back in Washington."

***

"We're three minutes out from target," Duck announced, tracing their flight path on the map strapped to his leg. "Soon as we clear these valleys, bump up to eight-thousand feet for the camera run."

"You know everybody and their brother is gonna see us at that altitude," Tony grunted, keeping his attention on the terrain speeding by them. He was staying as close to the treetops as possible, risking small-arms fire to minimize their exposure to heavier weapons. "We'll be radar-painted almost immediately."

"That's the altitude LBJ's smart guys specified," Duck shrugged. "Guess they know something we don't. Anyway, the Weasels went through here just yesterday. We'll be in and out fast and clean, boss…no worries."

"Famous last words…" the astronaut mumbled under his breath. For all his stick-talent, he'd only been this far north a few times; enough to have developed a healthy respect for Hanoi's air defenses but not enough to be comfortable flying straight into them. "Okay, Jeannie," he cajoled the plane as he kicked it into the clear, "let's give the man a chance to get his pictures and get back to the bottle."

His unspoken concern that perhaps the Weasels had overestimated their success in the morning briefing was confirmed almost immediately…black puffs of seemingly harmless smoke started appearing around them and the warning tone of a radar-lock blared through the cockpit as soon as they topped the last ridge. "Just get us in and out quick, boss," Duck repeated, a tremor of nervousness now in his voice. "We're almost there…this won't take long."

"They've painted us," Tony tightly observed as he leveled out and rammed the throttle forward, "Don't watch the flak; it'll hypnotize you. Keep one eye on the instruments and the other looking out for missile launches."

"We've hit our marker!" Duck called out, too occupied with his own tasks to follow Tony's instructions. "Cameras rolling! Hold steady!"

The tone in Tony's helmet was becoming more strident. Too strident. "Dammit, Duck," he warned, "something's wrong…the area's way too hot! The Weasels must've gotten spoofed yesterday! If you don't hurry up…"

He didn't get a chance to finish. "Missilemissilemissile!" Duck screamed, "Inbound ten-low!"

Cursing, Tony wrenched the aircraft into a spinning dive away from the SA-2 an instant before the flying telephone pole streaked through the space they'd just vacated. The plane rocked as it detonated above them. "There's more radiation going through here than Hiroshima!" he barked at his back-seater as the enemy radars reacquired them and the tone began gaining strength once more. "They're on us like white on rice! I can't shake the acquisitions…we're gonna get another one! Time to bug out!"

"Concur!" Duck hollered, trying to scan both ground and sky simultaneously. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught several more bright plumes of smoke and fire rising deceptively slowly to meet them. "More inbounds! Three-low!"

"They've got lock!" Tony announced, desperately trying to shed altitude and get under the missile's minimum ceiling as quickly as possible. If he couldn't dump air, they were going to…

He didn't hear the warheads detonate, but he felt the blast pressure ripple through both the aircraft and his body like a never-ending wave. It was as if a child had grabbed the Phantom like a toy and, in a fit of rage, flung it across the sky. Inside the cockpit, Tony was dimly aware that just about every alarm and warning light was going off, but he ignored them. It was all he could do just to wrestle the plane back into some semblance of controlled flight. Fighting the stick the whole way, he managed to get them down to near-treetop level again, this time nailing his compass arrow dead on the 'S'. "Hang with me, Duck," he grunted at his dazed companion. "We can still scoot outta here. I'm not giving up on Hawaii yet."

Duck wasn't a pilot, but he knew how to read the instruments. With a groan, he shook his head to clear it. "Uhh…we're not doing so hot, boss. Port engine shows shutdown…hydraulic pressure is dropping…we're…jeez, I've never seen so many red lights outside a simulator. We're losing fuel, but not bad…" Just then, a bright silver shape slowly edged by them; too slowly to be another missile. "…and it looks like we've picked up a MiG problem," he breathed, watching the enemy fighter as it passed them and began circling around. "A MiG-21…how 'bout that? They're fielding the first string for us. I'm surprised he didn't just pop us from behind."

"He's checking us out first," Tony grunted, "trying to figure out what flavor of Phantom we are." Unfortunately, since they were the unarmed flavor this friendly pass would likely be followed up with a gun run. Why waste an expensive missile when cannon rounds were so cheap, plentiful and fun? He found himself wishing he was in one of NASA's F-104s. They were temperamental beasts but, with a top speed of nearly two-thousand miles per hour, he'd have been back in the south chugging his second cup of coffee by the time the MiG pilot even realized he'd been there. There was no helping it, though; he had what he had, and he hadn't become an astronaut…the best of the best…by crying foul every time something didn't go his way. Getting back to the task at hand, he willed some spine into his voice. "Just keep your eyes peeled for his buddies," he directed, "and don't panic. I've still got a trick or two up my sleeve."

Duck didn't have to look very hard. "One more hanging back behind us," he called out after a moment, "and two coming up from the south. Looks like they're trying to cut us off."

With effort, Tony banked to port…trading 'south' for 'east'…and began talking on the radio. "We're making for the water," he noted once he was finished. "Navy's sending in support off a carrier but they're thirty minutes out. Hope you brought swim trunks." He didn't say it, but he knew they wouldn't arrive in time. At half-thrust, he could almost measure his jet's speed with a calendar.

Almost in time with the thought, a rhythmic buzzing noise…like a bumblebee beating against a windowpane…caught his attention. Glancing out the canopy, his lips thinned as he watched the MiG's tracer rounds whizzing by. "Hang on, Duck…we're gonna find out if this joker's worth his hardware." Just as the MiG was lining up for another shot, Tony flicked his wrist and executed a series of snap-rolls so tight they would've earned him an invitation to join the Thunderbirds had any friendly pilots been there to see. The next several cannon bursts sailed harmlessly by.

There was a good reason Tony Nelson wore Astronaut's wings…even in a severely damaged aircraft he was a technically flawless pilot, an adversary worth fearing and, that day, he used every tactic and trick he knew…and a few he invented on the spot…to shake the communist pilot off. The MiG driver, whoever he was, wasn't a dogfight virgin either and, over the next fifteen minutes or so, the peasants working in the rice paddies below were treated to a piloting display worth telling their children about. The damaged Phantom spun, jinked and dove as if possessed by a crazed demon, always seeming to stay mere inches away from sudden death as it struggled towards the Gulf of Tonkin. Every mile was earned the hard way.

But there was a limit to what the plane could take and it was only a matter of time until it reached it. Eventually a well-timed burst found the Phantom's tail and shredded a portion of it. What remained of the aircraft's maneuverability was eliminated and Tony quickly realized that straight and level flight was all 'Jeannie' had left in her. Knowing they were done, he sucked in a heavy breath. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he quietly whispered to a beautiful woman nine-thousand miles away. "Looks like I'm leaving you at home alone for good this time…"

For his part, Duck was bracing himself. When the killing blow didn't immediately fall, he hazarded a look to the side. "Boss, what's he doing?"

"Huh?"

"The Vietnamese pilot…he's flying formation beside us and making like he's calling us nuts."

Tony looked out and saw the MiG was no longer on their 'six'…it was flying close enough for him to see the pilot watching him. Noticing that he had the American's attention, he pointed at his helmet and spun his finger around the earpiece. "It looks like he wants to…talk."

"Talk? Jeezus…what do we do?"

"_We _don't do anything," the astronaut responded. "_You_ keep quiet. This may be our only chance, so let me do the talking." Switching channels to one both sides monitored…the universal distress frequency…he tried to decide what to say. Not that it mattered much…he had no interest in listening to the other pilot's gloating, but he was very interested in buying time. He knew they couldn't escape…but a minute or two of breathing space would be enough to set a few loss-mitigating conditions. Looking about quickly, he noted the leader's wingmen weren't in a position to see him clearly. Surreptitiously he flipped a toggle on his control panel, hesitated a second to see if they'd noticed what he'd done, and then keyed his mike.

***

Sidling his MiG up to the mortally-wounded Phantom so they were wingtip-to-wingtip, Colonel Nureyev waited for the other pilot to glance over at him. Once he did, he pointed at the earpiece on his helmet and made a spinning motion with his finger. A moment later, the American mimicked the gesture. Seeing that he'd been understood, the Russian switched frequencies to the universal distress channel and listened. There'd be a reprimand waiting for him from the KGB and GRU shitheels back at the embassy for communicating on an unscrambled band but, even with the divide between East and West, a bond existed among those who traveled in space. It was a brotherhood he very badly wanted to join.

The static broke almost immediately. _"Sorry, Charlie,"_ the American transmitted_, "but I don't speak Vietnamese. Since you seem to have me by the short hairs anyway, I'm guessing this'll be a quick conversation."_

Nureyev laughed. Even knowing his death was imminent, the astronaut wasn't panicking. That didn't surprise him. One had to have testicles the size of grapefruits to fly atop a ballistic missile. "Then we have something in common, Yankee," he responded in English. "My Vietnamese speakings also not so good."

There was a long moment of silence before the mike was keyed again. _"You know…you do sound a little too much like Boris Badenov to be a local,"_ the American eventually drawled. _"So Chairman Ho's puppet-masters are finally crawling out from behind the Iron Curtain and showing themselves. A little far from home aren't you, Boris?"_

"Not as far as you, my space-travelling friend," the Russian chuckled, "but you right; your time almost up."

When he replied, the surprise was evident in the American's voice. Even through a static-filled link, Nureyev could hear it. _"How the hell did you know I'm an astronaut?"_

He laughed outright at that. The NASA man was brave but still typically Yankee; ignorant of anything outside his own sphere of influence. "In Soviet Union, babushkas wait in queue a day for roll of shit paper," he chortled, "but we also put men in space first, da? You think nation that can do that has no TV? All pilots here know to look for Phantom jet with blondie harem girl holding bottle painted on fuselage. And today I find you." Shaking his head regrettably, he tsked, "Not good, my friend…not good. Were I you, wishings I was home with pretty blondie on Florida beach right now I would be."

Unexpectedly, the Yankee astronaut laughed right back. _"Boris, forget Florida. Knowing my little harem girl, she's trying every trick in the book and then some to get HERE right now. Unfortunately for me, she'll fail…and you have no idea how lucky that makes you."_

"Da, is unfortunate for you," the Russian pilot agreed. "But you and I, we discuss other matters. My native hosts…they become suspicious quickly so I will be frank. You are skilled pilot and your…" squinting at the name under the nose art, he enunciated, "…'Jeannie' is spirited girl, but I know she is finished." Exaggeratedly, he sighed. "But you, comrade…you do not have to be. Hilton is wery, wery bad place…but grave, I think, is worse. If real Florida Jeannie is like beautiful harem girl on plane, think of her and choose Hilton. There will be bad for you, but she will have some hopings to seeing you again someday." Shaking his head at the other pilot, he pointed at him, fired a short burst from his cannon, and then drew a finger across his throat. "Here…nyet. No hope. Not wishings to kill you, but decision is yours my friend." Certain his opponent understood, he banked away, circled behind the helpless Phantom and lined up for the coup de grace.

***

"I don't like either of your options, Boris," Tony grunted to himself as he watched the MiG-21 pull away. "I think I prefer the one that keeps my Jeannie from lying awake at night crying because her Master is in a bamboo cage." Flipping the toggle he'd been depressing back into place, he glanced at the corresponding gauge, saw that it read zero and allowed himself a second of satisfaction. His chatty Russian friend had been too busy bantering to notice he was jettisoning his remaining fuel. The good ship 'Dreaming of Jeannie' was done for…there was no doubt about that…but when the MiG came in to finish them off they wouldn't burn up in a fireball. At least, that was the idea.

"We should punch out now, Boss!" Duck exclaimed. "The Russkie's right! We're dead if we don't!"

"Just hang on a little longer," he calmly replied, feeling the remaining engine starting to sputter beneath him. It was odd, he fleetingly thought, how calm he felt; almost as if he'd never been more alive than he was…here at the point of death. Reaching out, he trailed a finger down the frayed pink veil he'd knotted around the ancient bottle-stopper six months and a lifetime ago. _No…that's not true_ he corrected. _I felt just as alive the last night we spent together. If this doesn't work, at least I'll die knowing we both got a fleeting glimpse of the life we could've had._ But he wasn't dead yet. His expression hardening, Tony snatched his djinni's love token off its little hook, stuffed it in a pocket of his flight suit and securely zipped it up. Keying the mike for the last time, he delivered his parting shot…only verbal, unfortunately…and switched frequencies without waiting for a response.

***

The American recon plane, one engine totally flamed out, the other sputtering and half its tail gone, remained airborne only through the extraordinary skill of its pilot. Even if Nureyev simply broke off and let it go, it wouldn't hold together much longer. The Yankee astronaut knew this as well, but couldn't resist one final retort. _"Listen, Boris,"_ he radioed, _"before you pull the trigger…do one thing for me?"_

"What is it?"

"_Just once I'd like to hear a real, live Red actually say 'Moose and Squirrel'. If I gotta go down, I might as well go down laughing."_

Not getting the reference the Russian frowned in puzzlement, then shrugged. Evidently the spaceman had made up his mind.

***

"MOOSE AND SQUIRREL?" the back-seater yelped. "Have you flipped your lid? We're flying a glorified hunk of scrap over the heart of North Vietnam and you just asked that commie gunslinger for a Bullwinkle and Rocky line? Oh, shit…we're really in for it now…"

"Listen, lieutenant," Tony shot back at his camera operator, emphasizing the rank to get the young man's attention, "people make stupid mistakes when they're mad, and unless the idea of wearing burlap pajamas for the next few years appeals to you, we need a mistake from him." Quickly checking their altitude, airspeed and location, he continued, "Duck…you need to be ready. No matter what I do, we're gonna go through hell on earth in a few seconds so tighten your harness, hunker down and pray that armor plate behind your seat is thick enough to protect us. I'll punch us both out when the time's right…not before. You got that?"

Duck's voice couldn't have gone any quieter. "Yes sir," he meekly responded.

Eyeballing his airspeed indicator again, Tony eased the throttle back to just above a stall and did his best to follow his own advice. Any second now, the Russian would figure out that they weren't bailing…at least, not on his schedule. Were they to do so, MiGs would simply loiter around their drop area until the NVA regulars sent out to track them down arrived. He harbored no illusions about their chances under that scenario. They'd find themselves guests at the Hanoi Hilton by nightfall, he'd be paraded in front of the international press as the latest 'high-payoff' capture and…well, there were only vague whispers about what happened afterwards. He wasn't sure how true they were but he knew for a fact that Uncle Ho-Ho's boys couldn't even pronounce 'Geneva Convention'.

Closing his eyes, he sucked in a breath and tried to relax as he waited for the inevitable. And, as always happened when he relaxed, she drifted into his thoughts. What was it Jeannie had whispered in his ear that last night? That if he thought about her hard enough, she could see him? He didn't want that…not now…and he tried to clear her out of his mind. But doing so was self-defeating; the harder he struggled to push her away, the stronger her image manifested_._ Cocoa Beach time was eleven hours behind Vietnam; it would be early evening there. What would she be doing? Taking a nap? Reading? Maybe Roger had stopped by and invited her out for a movie? _Darling, if you can really see this, things aren't as bad as they look, _he lied. _Don't panic. Trust me…I have a plan... _

***

Switching frequencies back to Hanoi Ground Intercept, Nureyev still allowed the enemy pilot ten seconds to eject. When he didn't, he disappointedly sighed. "I am truly sorry," he muttered in Russian, "This will not be popular in either of our countries but as you capitalist bourgeoisie say…business is business…" Depressing the trigger, he began raking the stricken aircraft with cannon fire.

***

As if time had somehow slowed down for him, Tony idly watched the first tracers from the MiG-21 flash by, and shortly afterwards he felt the Phantom's death-shudders as cannon projectiles began finding their mark. _Is this what accepting one's fate feels like?_ He could literally see the skin being flayed off the jet's wings and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It wouldn't take long.

Only at the end did worry begin leaking around his hastily-emplaced mental barriers…but he wasn't concerned for himself. _Sweetheart,_ _you need to turn away now. You don't want to see this. If you love me, smoke into your bottle, cover your ears and close your eyes. Chant a mantra. Pray. Do anything that blocks me out…oh, God… _And then it was too late. The crew compartment exploded around him in a maelstrom of flying projectiles, metallic shards and other debris as cannon fire began tearing through the main fuselage. _Jeanniemyangel! If this is my last thought, I've loved you since the day I found y…_

As the remaining engine disintegrated the aircraft bucked and rolled, savagely slamming Tony's helmet into the canopy and dazing him. The world outside…what he could see of it through the haze of pain in his head and the splintered safety glass…became a swirl of greens and blues as the aircraft tumbled. A thousand miles behind him, he could hear Duck screaming like a banshee as he was tossed like a pea in a rattle but he didn't care. For him, there was no more fighting, no more NASA, no more Jeannie waiting patiently at home…nothing remained but his training and an instinctive need to survive. Reaching between his legs, he grasped the ejection handles without conscious thought and fought to keep from blacking out. All he knew was that he needed to hold himself together for a few seconds. That would be enough.

Just before its final demise, the fuselage briefly righted itself and gave instinct its chance. Long hours in NASA's centrifuge paid off and precisely two seconds before the Phantom slammed into the ground, he pulled upwards with all his remaining strength. Tony Nelson, one-time astronaut and latest casualty of the Vietnam War, was dimly aware of the concussion as the explosive bolts beneath his seat blew him clear of the airframe…and then everything faded to black.

***

Lieutenant-Colonel Nureyev didn't release the trigger until the second engine blew apart and the Phantom's smoking remains heeled over, beginning a slow death tumble towards the rice paddies and jungle below.

He didn't loiter around to see the end. Confirmation didn't matter to him. Per the orders of the senior Soviet Military Liaison, Ground Intercept was required to credit the kill to his native wingman…who hadn't fired a shot and couldn't have challenged the American pilot on his best day. Tonight the young Vietnamese, whose father was a high Party official, would have his picture taken with Ho Chi Minh and be hailed as a People's Hero for dealing a crushing blow to the morale of the Yankee imperialists. Nureyev would get nothing; not even a victory star on his fighter. Such prideful things as individual recognition, the embassy's Political Officer would explain, were counterproductive to the Cause. It was more beneficial to the Proletarian Revolution to let their primitive allies celebrate it as a home-grown propaganda success.

But the truth would get out through unofficial channels…perhaps even back to Moscow...and that was definitely not a bad thing. His third application for cosmonaut training was even now winding its way through the organs of the State and he was confident this coup would finally earn him the coveted billet inside Star City he sought. And word of his chivalry would also get to the right people. He had done it purely out of respect but he wasn't shortsighted; it would gain him credibility with the Americans. Someday, he predicted, relations would thaw and he would be working with his former opponent's NASA counterparts. They would know he'd offered a defeated brother the opportunity to choose a dignified end and…well, he did not expect forgiveness nor would he ask for it, but America's astronauts were honorable men. The respect he'd shown one of theirs today would be repayed with respect for him tomorrow.

As he expected, there was no celebration waiting for him when he landed. He stood stiffly at attention on the flight line as his General reprimanded him, returned to his barracks, ate cold pork and turnips for dinner that night, and tried to get a few hours sleep before having to wrestle with his ill-educated trainees again. Just before turning in, he poured himself a tumbler of vodka and raised it in the American's memory. "_Prosit_, Major Nelson," he grunted. "I do not know why your government was foolish enough to send you here, but hopefully your loss will be my gain. I will remember you and speak of your skill and bravery when I become a cosmonaut…but, for what it is worth, I will also say I would much rather have flown with you as a comrade than against you as an enemy."

_**To Be Continued…**_


	2. Farewell, Apollo

**ABLE THREE-SEVEN**

_**A Romance**_

A/N: The Apollo 1 fire of 1967, the catalyst for the events in this chapter, actually occurred. At the time, it was the worst disaster NASA had ever suffered; it wouldn't be overshadowed until the destruction of the space shuttle _Challenger_ in 1986. While loss of life in any endeavor is terrible, the re-imagined Apollo Program that arose as a result was far tighter, safer and more cohesive than its predecessor. I'm mindful that, when carelessly done, interweaving real-life catastrophes into works of fiction can appear gratuitous, crass or in poor taste so I've endeavored to keep direct references to the event and those involved to a bare minimum. Where I couldn't avoid it, I did my best to make them respectful and indicative of how real people reacted at the time – no more, no less.

**Chapter 1**

"_**Farewell, Apollo"**_

_Cocoa Beach, Florida – 27 January 1967_

At over three-hundred sixty horsepower, the Pontiac GTO tearing down the Cocoa Beach strip wasn't in the same league as a Saturn booster, but there were few other cars on the road that could run it down. Certainly, there were few drivers who could outmaneuver the muscle car's normally-careful pilot. Tony Nelson wasn't in a careful mood at the moment. As commander of the upcoming Apollo 3 mission, he'd been in Mission Control when disaster struck Apollo 1 and now, in the aftermath, he was running almost entirely on adrenaline. Not that anything would've been different had he been out on the gantry and aware of the fire. The whole incident, from start to finish, had taken less than twenty seconds and he couldn't have pried off the doomed module's hatch any faster than the support team.

With a well-earned reputation as NASA's most pragmatic astronaut, he was keenly aware that, no matter how many precautions were taken, such events were always a possibility. NASA was attempting to accomplish the goal of a century in a single decade, and risk was something everyone in his profession constantly lived with. The caveat, however, was that unbeknownst to virtually all his friends in the program, he had it within his power to turn the worst day in the history of American space exploration into just another day...and, as he sped through every intersection in town, he intended to do exactly that. Knowing full well he'd eventually have to answer to Doctor Bellows for skipping the mandatory after-action session…or whatever it was called…he'd deliberately thrown every post-incident protocol aside and slipped away from the Space Center just before the Internal Review investigators locked the facility down. His was an uncharacteristically illogical, emotional hope, but logic and rationality were in short supply at the moment.

Skidding into his driveway, he barely got the car parked before he was out and sprinting for the front door. He didn't even need to call out…Jeannie was already pressing against the other side of the entryway so closely that he sent her backpedaling into the foyer as he burst in. Once she recovered and faced him, one glance at her haunted expression and the way she was worriedly kneading her fingers told him she knew something terrible had happened. The networks had undoubtedly interrupted regular programming with the news and, with little else to occupy her when he wasn't home, she watched TV avidly.

Normally, they had a routine when he arrived in the evening; they exchanged pecks on the cheek, she took his briefcase, he hung up his coat, she asked about his day and so on. Were it not for her harem attire, anyone seeing them together would assume they were a young married couple. This time, sheer relief drove that routine aside. He barely had the door closed before the petite, blonde djinni threw herself into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and carrying him back against the wall. "Master!" she tremulously exclaimed, "Oh, thank goodness you are safe! Mister Cronkite spoke to me from the magic box and said there had been a fatal accident aboard one of your space machines, but when he would not release the deceased astronaut's names, I…I began to worry." Burying her face in his shirt, he could feel her chest erratically rising and falling as she struggled to get her breathing under control. "You did not call," she huskily declared, hurt accusation in her tone, "and I did not know what to do. I wanted to bring you directly home but, if by chance you were one of the victims, I do not believe I could have faced what arrived." Tightening her hold, her voice broke as she concluded, "Those poor men…they were your friends…"

She wasn't a weakling, and as she clung to him Tony felt his eyes starting to bulge. Any closer and she'd be wearing his uniform. Grasping her shoulders more brusquely than he intended, he pried her off. "Jeannie," he stated as firmly as he could, "I couldn't call you. NASA shuts off all the outside lines in Mission Control when something like this happens. I'm sorry you were worried but…look, I'll make it up to you later. Right now, we don't have time for this. I broke every rule in the book to get back here because I need a wish from you and, God knows, it'll be the most important one I'll ever ask for." Stooping so they were eye-to-eye, he kneaded her shoulders lightly and continued, "Now, listen very carefully, young lady. The three astronauts who died…I want you to bring them…"

Her eyes widening, the djinni stilled his lips with trembling fingers before he could finish. "Master, no!" she breathed in dismay. "I know what you want and I beg you; do not ask for it! Reanimation is not a wish; it is a terrible curse and attempting it always brings horrific consequences!" Seeing that her Master's expression was darkening as his mood shifted from hope to frustration, she dropped her hand from his lips and cupped his cheek instead. "Please…please heed me," she softly beseeched. "I will gladly do anything else you ask, but performing a true resurrection is as far beyond me as it is beyond you. I am only a minor house-djinni and the souls of your friends are in a place where even the great Djinns can never reach them."

With effort, Tony bit back on the disappointed epithet trying to force its way out. "Well, if you can't bring them back now," he stubbornly reasoned, "what if I could stop them beforehand? That way, you wouldn't have to resurrect anyone…all you'd have to do is, you know, turn back time and blink their capsule fixed! I can do the rest! I can warn them!"

Distraught, Jeannie spun in his arms and tried to pull away, only surrendering and covering his hands with hers when Tony eased her back against his chest and held her fast. "If you truly wish it, I can make today into yesterday for you," she reluctantly confirmed, her voice almost a whisper, "but warning them will not change their destiny. Fate is a force neither djinn nor mortal can challenge; it wins every time. Not only would it foil your attempts, but the effort could claim you as well." Shaking her head sadly, she added, "I cannot even repair the flaws in their vessel unless you guide me. The devices you use to explore the heavens are very complex and I would only make things worse unless you told me exactly what to do and how to do it."

Tony snorted harshly. "Make things worse?" he exclaimed. "Jeannie, how can it get any worse? Three good men are gone, the program I've devoted my entire adult life to is in ruins, and the one time I really need you, you tell me you can't help!"

"It would be far, far worse for me if my good man wast one of the three, Master!" Jeannie exclaimed, her modern English slipping in her distress. "Dost thou not understand? Fate could take thee as well as thy friends and as much as I…as I feel for thee, I would be just as helpless!" Turning to face him once more, she rested her hands and forehead against his chest and swallowed as she struggled to find words that would get through. "The Blue Djinn's curse ties me to my bottle and dictates I be totally subservient to you," she whispered after a moment, "and that is what it is; serving a Master is a djinni's lot in life. But he had nothing to do with the magic that truly ensnares me; that is entirely yours. Your spell over me is far too subtle and beautiful to be a curse but, for all the joy it gives me, it also makes me selfish and petty where you are concerned. I am sorry for your loss but I will not allow you to risk your life pursuing a futile, impossible goal…even if that means defying you."

With that flat rejection out, she refused to meet his eyes…but he could feel her trembling in his arms. She'd bent his words and intent before but had never truly defied him; doing so now, even for his own good, obviously terrified her. They both knew he could extract a price for her refusal…a very steep one, if he desired it. She'd told him about the less-fortunate of her kind; those djinn and djinni enslaved to cruel, even sadistic masters. These tormented souls, she fearfully whispered, shamefully abused their helpless servants, driving them to exhaustion with wishes and then forcing them to inflict unspeakable punishments upon themselves for their 'disobedience' when they finally gave out. Compared to that, he'd always figured he was a djinni's ideal master. He wasn't greedy or demanding, he treated Jeannie as an equal…well, usually…and, except for a few simple household tasks, she was more or less free to do as she pleased. Most of the time, turning his life into a never-ending series of outlandish predicaments seemed to be what pleased her but, even at that, the worst he'd ever done in return was scold her and restrict her to her bottle for a couple of hours.

Looking down at the top of her head, he chewed his lip for a moment. All that said, and she was still trembling in fear…bracing herself for the explosion she was sure was coming. Was he as good and kind a master as he imagined he was? Sure, he was an up-tight jerk sometimes, but she had to know he would never knowingly hurt her. So why was she afraid?

He knew why. Part of him, he admitted to himself…the shocked, grief-stricken man who'd been an open-mouthed onlooker in Mission Control when the Apollo Program imploded…was looking for an excuse to lash out. It was urging him to redirect his frustration and helplessness onto her and berate her for being a weak, inadequate wisp of smoke who couldn't satisfy a single wish without twisting him into knots. But that part didn't rule him and never had. Tony knew he was flawed…he was a perfectionist, he drove himself too hard and Jeannie's innocent antics kept his nerves constantly on edge…but, as put-upon as he acted, all his bluster was purely for show. When happy, she wasn't shy about advertising her feelings for him but, then again, a carefree near-immortal had that luxury. A careworn mortal didn't, and although the 'L' word had wormed its way past his lips a time or two, imagining the chaos that would ensue if she ever realized how far for her he'd actually fallen kept him lying awake more nights than he'd freely admit.

Denying passion didn't render him incapable of displaying compassion, though. She might be over two-thousand years old, but her emotions were the same as everyone else's and a gentle word or two would reassure her…particularly since she seemed to be expecting the opposite. Knowing she was listening intently, he dipped his head and lightly kissed her temple. "Hey, stop shaking," he soothingly murmured. "It's okay. How can I be angry at you for protecting me from my own stupidity? That's not being selfish or defiant; that's what a woman who cares about her…uh, a good man does. None of this is your fault and if you say trying to change it is too dangerous, then it is. But I…understand that I had to at least ask. They were my brothers and I owed their families that much."

As she listened, her trembling tapered off and she slowly relaxed in his arms. When she spoke her voice was soft and sad, muffled by the fabric of his shirt. "You are not stupid, Master. You want to right what you believe to be a wrong…but wrongs are part of life, too. Even if one has a djinni, some bad things must be allowed to happen no matter how much pain they cause." Looking up into his eyes, she managed a faint, uncertain smile. "What will you do now?"

"I don't know," Tony sighed. "The sun…it'll still rise tomorrow. I'll put on my uniform, go to work and live my life. I'll pay my respects at the appropriate time and in the appropriate way. Beyond that…uh…" Realizing he was getting too comfortable holding her and his hands had found their way from her shoulders to her bare waist, he discreetly repositioned them and drew back slightly. "Well, beyond that," he repeated, "things may get a little rocky around here. I probably won't be much fun to be around for awhile. I just want you to know that it's the situation, not you. No matter how boneheaded I get, I wouldn't trade you for the world. Forgive me?"

Every bit as discreetly, Jeannie reclaimed the gap he'd put between them, managing to coax his hands down onto her waist again as she did so. "I am but your humble djinni," she responded, snaking her arms around him and affectionately pressing her lips against his lapel, "A Master does not have to ask his djinni for forgiveness."

Tony managed a watery smile. "You're more to me than just a djinni," he chuckled, planting a chaste kiss on her forehead, "you're my friend, and the truth is I should ask your forgiveness more often than I do. Now…how about you run along and fix yourself some dinner," he urged, his smile starting to falter. "You're probably starving and I need to…uh, it's been a long day. I think I'll change and rest my eyes for an hour or so."

"I…can I make you something?" Jeannie hopefully ventured. "Some chicken soup, perhaps?"

"Now that's a wonderful idea," he agreed with too much forced cheer. "You know what? Why don't you just leave some out and I'll heat it up later."

"Oh…well, if that is all you wish," she glumly acknowledged, seeing through the façade and recognizing that the odds of her finding cold, untouched soup on the stove in the morning were near-certain. "I…understand. I will not disturb you." Dropping her gaze, she reluctantly released him and stepped back. With a blink, she disappeared in a swirl of violet smoke.

Tony waited until he heard the clatter of pots and pans being pulled out in the kitchen before he straightened his collar, smoothed the bottom of his uniform blouse and shakily made his way to his bedroom. Although the background clatter continued, Jeannie silently rematerialized just outside his closed door a few seconds later. Settling herself on the floor, she pressed a palm against the frame and closed her eyes. Inside, she sensed him puttering around as he changed clothes and, after a moment, she heard the tap turning in the bathroom. She knew what he was trying to hide. "You do not have to cry alone, Master," she whispered, her voice catching as her lower lip began to tremble. "I am always with you, even if you do not see me. I love you."

At that, she blinked…and between the closed door and the running water, Tony never realized that she was just outside, biting down on her knuckle so he wouldn't hear her shouldering a little of his grief and crying alongside him.

As he broke down he watched himself in the mirror, figuring this was about as bad as it could get. A few days later, he would learn that he was terribly, terribly wrong.

***

_Cape Kennedy, Florida – 30 January 1967_

Tossing the pencil he was holding aside, Tony groaned, rubbed some of the dryness out of his eyes and looked for the thousandth time at the complicated schematic spread across his desk. Ever since the incident, he'd been immersed in it…following each circuit and trying to track down any faults the engineers might've missed. In the process he'd filled nearly every blank space on the sheet with meticulous observations…but it didn't matter. He could operate the systems; he knew every switch, every sequence, and every bypass and alternate backwards, but the Apollo Command Module was the most complicated device ever built by Man. It had taken hundreds to design and assemble. There were going to be no 'eureka' moments; no one person, however driven, was going to solve the problem.

Just as he began to pore over the document once more, a tap at his office door made him glance up. "Hey, Tone," Major Roger Healey said as he eased the door open, juggling cups of coffee. "You busy?"

"No…" Tony exasperatedly huffed, "…not really. We've got a meeting with General Peterson in about ten minutes. I'm just killing time. It helps take my mind off our situation."

Handing one of the coffee cups over, the Army astronaut stuck a hand in his pocket and leaned over the desk. Eyeing the worksheet, he hummed to himself. "The electrical relay schematic of the command module," he noted. "Just killing time, huh?" Looking sympathetically at his friend, he continued, "Look, you're probably the smartest guy I know, but you're a fuels and boosters expert. This kind of analysis is a little out of your lane." Turning the chart slightly, he read some of the notes. "That doesn't mean this is worthless…for a non-EE you did a pretty accurate workup…but give it a rest, okay? Rumor is the brass is scrapping the entire module and going for a total redesign anyway."

"I hope not. I mean…we all know the ship has major problems but going back to ground zero…that'll set the program back a year."

Roger shook his head. "We've gone beyond 'major' problems, Tone," he corrected. "We've had our first fatalities so 'catastrophic' is the word I'd use. I think even a year is too optimistic." Falling into an awkward silence, Tony's friend toyed with his cup, evidently wanting to say more. "So…ah, how's everything on the home front?"

"The past few days have been a little rough, but we're managing."

Roger knew who the other half of 'we' was. "Jeannie understands how bad things are?"

"She knows," Tony noncommittally responded, the mention of his djinni placing him on guard. Sometimes she took merely saying her name aloud as an invitation to visit…and he definitely didn't want her popping in today. "She's…letting me have a little space. Given how tense I've been lately, I don't blame her." That was true, to an extent. Jeannie was indeed keeping an unusually low profile around the house, but she was also doing little things to let him know she was watching over him. A couple of nights, he'd worked late in his study, dozed off, and found himself in bed the next morning. His food was always hot and sitting on the table when he went to eat. Even now he could sense her…well, not spying exactly, but aware of him and ready to respond if he called. "The deaths really upset her…hell, Rog, they upset all of us…but I think it's finally sunk into her pretty head that this profession can kill me no matter how close she stays."

Roger cleared his throat. Putting down his coffee cup, he rocked back and forth nervously on his heels. "Yeah…um, about that…" he muttered. "Tone…you know, Gus and I were pretty tight. Not like the two of us, but he was my first mentor in the program. When I got tapped, he was the only Mercury guy willing to take an oddball green-suiter under his wing. I guess he of all people knew what it felt like to be considered a goof-up." His expression starting to falter, he continued, "Look, I know how you feel about keeping Jeannie's wishes under control and I'm not asking that she conjure up a palace, money or…uh, a harem. I don't want anything for myself. But they were all stand-up guys and they…ah, they've left people behind who need them. Tony, please…all she has to do is cross her arms and blink, you know? One teensy, little nod from her and we could all be down at the club laughing, dancing and running up a tab. This would all become just another bad dream."

Burying his face in his hands, Tony sucked in a breath. "Rog, no. It won't work. She can't do it."

Roger nodded to himself. "How did I know you were gonna say that?" he murmured under his breath. Picking up the coffee cup the normally mild-mannered astronaut fidgeted with it for a moment and then snapped, crushing it and throwing it angrily across the room. "Well, I'll tell you how," he barked, slamming his hands down on the desk, "it's because that's what you always say! So clue me in…is it really because she can't? Is that the truth? Or is it really because your beliefs about right and wrong are so rigid that you won't even ask her to try!"

"Goddammit, Rog!" Tony responded, rising from his chair to face his suddenly-emotional friend. "What kind of…of asshole…do you think I am? You calling me a liar now?" Slinging the schematic and his coffee off his desk, he leaned forward. "When I AWOLed out of Mission Control that day, who do you suppose I went to find, huh? Well, let me tell you, buddy…I certainly wasn't risking my entire career so I could rush home and play the straight man while Jeannie giggled at footage of my gob-smacked mug on the evening news!" Coming around the desk, he lowered his voice. "Say…speaking of which, where the hell have you been holed up, anyway? I tried to call you a hundred times and got no answer."

Feeling somewhat foolish, Roger looked around pensively. "I was…getting some air. After spending about five hours having my psyche dredged by Doctor Bellows…thanks for leaving me to cover your ass over that, by the way…I took a drive down A1A. You'd be amazed how many barflies will take pity on a depressed astronaut and buy him a drink."

"Yeah," Tony testily retorted, "knowing you, I'll bet a couple of those barflies gave up more than pity and a few drinks." Snorting, he shook his head, trying to get his temper under control. "Just so you know, I did ask. I think one of the reasons Jeannie's tiptoeing around me is because for the past year and a half all I've trusted her to do with that power of hers is fix my breakfast and iron my shirts…and when I finally needed something major, she didn't have the juice for it. You can be as angry at me as you want, Rog, but do me a favor, huh? Don't be angry at her. She wanted to help, but bringing back the dead is way out of her league and it isn't her fault she couldn't."

"Who…can't bring back the dead, exactly?" a new voice echoed from the doorway.

Turning, the two men found Dr. Bellows, NASA's resident psychiatrist, looking on with mild curiosity. Surveying the trash on the floor and the expressions of the office's occupants, he shook his head. "Oh, never mind. Gentlemen, we're all under a great deal of stress…and you aren't helping by carrying on an argument that can be heard by others in the corridor. If you wish to finally…unburden yourselves…you know where my office is. Now, however, General Peterson awaits. Let's go."

As they followed the doctor down the corridor, Roger gently tugged Tony's cuff. "Sorry," he whispered. "I was way outta line. No hard feelings?"

"It's alright," Tony whispered back, "I'm off my soapbox now. Forget about it." A few seconds later, they passed three very frustrated-looking men going the other way. "The Apollo 2 crew," he murmured to his companion as he nodded to them. "They look ready to bite the heads off nails. This is going to be ugly."

"They're scrapping the module. I knew it."

***

As they came through the door, the two astronauts noted that the third member of their crew, Lieutenant Commander Les Wingate, was already present. Both men liked Les, but they weren't particularly close to him outside work. As the Command Module pilot, he knew more about its operation that either of his contemporaries, but the fact that he was focused on it while Tony and Roger were primarily training with the Lunar Excursion Module, the LEM, kept them separated much of the time.

That…and the fact that Les had been assigned to the crew by Doctor Bellows, ostensibly to make the inter-service balance complete but both astronauts suspected he was surreptitiously keeping notes on them. It wasn't the other astronaut's fault, of course…one did what one was told…but the arrangement wasn't one that nurtured trust.

None of that was important at the moment. The Associate Administrator for Space Operations, General Martin Peterson, rose from behind his desk and motioned to them. "Tony, Roger…good to see you. Come in and take a seat."

Once they were comfortable, the General got right to the point. "Gentlemen, you probably noticed your Apollo 2 counterparts leaving on your way in and I'll give it to you straight; they didn't like what I had to say and neither will you." Pausing, he flipped through a briefing book. "The Administrator has been briefed on the preliminary incident investigation," he continued after a moment, "and he's finally convinced of something you, me and everybody else who's actually touched this contraption already knows. Our command module is a dangerous, poorly-designed piece of crap. It's not going to get us to the Moon; hell, it's got more bugs than the outhouse behind my grandma's place." Letting the folder in front of him fall closed, he nearly spat. "Too bad it took losing three of our best to teach him. My God, to believe I put living men in a machine whose hatch only opened to the inside. It'll be a long time before I can look at myself in the mirror again."

Tony shifted in his seat. "Sir, with respect…our counterparts knew the risks as well as we do and they still went. And if you give the word, we'll go too. Lousy as the module is, it's what we've got. We can't do anything without it. We can't even run tests."

General Peterson glanced over at Dr. Bellows. "That's where you're wrong, Tony. We are going to do without it. The Administrator and I have decided to slow down and bite the bullet even if it means no Moon landing this decade. We're placing the program on temporary hiatus and cancelling both Apollo 2 and your mission to free up time and funding to redesign the command module. We're going force North American Aviation to get its act together, deliver a ship we can trust, and if everything…and I mean everything…goes right we'll resume preliminary flight testing with Apollo 4."

Inside, Tony quailed. A surreptitious glance at Roger told him his friend was doing the same thing. To an astronaut, the rotation…the sequence in which crews and missions were assigned…was everything. If their mission was cancelled, the rest of the rotation wouldn't automatically be bumped back to accommodate them. Clearing his throat, he leaned forward. "Are you saying…uh, we're going to the end of the line?"

Peterson hesitated a moment, then nodded. "I'm sorry, fellas. Truth is, even when we get the new ship this disaster has effectively turned NASA's clock back to 1964. I doubt the next few Apollo launches will even be crewed. If I were a betting man, I'd say you'll get one of the last Moon shots…if not the last."

"Might as well pencil us in for the first Mars landings instead," Roger muttered under his breath. "At this rate it'll be the bicentennial before we fly."

Tony glared his friend into silence. Adding disrespect to their list of problems wasn't going to help. "Sir, begging your pardon but…what happens to us in the meantime? Apollo 4 could be over a year away. If you think it'll take that long to get the program running again…"

"Don't worry about that," Peterson demurred, "your people will be gainfully employed." Turning to Les, he continued, "Commander, you know the command module better than almost anybody here, and we're going to handle its redesign our way…the pilot's way. I need you on the factory floor at North American picking through every aspect of their business. You know all the issues and I don't want their engineers as much as fitting a seat cushion without your clearing it." At Wingate's nod, Peterson shifted attention to Roger. "Major Healey…you're going to be working with Les. Every decision he makes with the contractor will be sent to you here. You'll be updating the command module simulators to replicate every change as it happens. We aren't going to allow any lag time between design and training…if we give Congress and LBJ a chance to get cold feet over Apollo 1, we'll be toast faster than a stray piece of white bread at Rosie's Diner." Settling back in his chair, the General concluded, "Any questions?"

Both men nodded their understanding. Between them, Tony uncertainly started to raise his hand…but a warning look from Dr. Bellows stifled it.

"That'll be all then. Your orders and more detailed instructions will follow. Until then, you're dismissed." His expression gentling slightly, he added, "Tony…I'd appreciate it if you'd stay behind a moment."

"Should I stay as well?" Dr. Bellows queried.

"No, Doctor," the General answered, favoring Nelson with a nod. "I'm sure the good Major can find you if he needs you."

"Very well, then," Looking sympathetically at the astronaut, he concluded, "Major Nelson…if you want to talk later, feel free to stop by. I never thought I'd say this regarding you, but in this case it'll be totally…ah, off the record."

As he rose to leave, Roger exchanged a puzzled glance with his friend. Tony returned it and shrugged. All this sudden sensitivity was making him nervous. "I'll…uh, keep that in mind."

General Peterson waited a few moments after the door closed before slipping the thin incident investigation folder off his desk and retrieving a much thicker binder. Tapping the cover, he asked, "Do you know what this is?"

"I…I have no idea, sir."

"It's the latest section of Dr. Bellows' file on you." Flipping the cover back, he glanced at it and chuckled, "Chapter II…the post-Stardust period. Did you know he plans to write a book about you someday?"

"He's told me, but if that's just one chapter it looks like it'll be a multi-volume set." Shifting uncomfortably, he continued, "Sir, if this is about the…oddities…he thinks he's seen over the past couple of years, I can explain…"

Raising a hand, Peterson cut the young man off. "Tony, I'm not going there. Alfred Bellows may be an up-tight stick in the mud, but he's a damn fine officer, a first-rate medico, and I believe him when he says inexplicable things happen around you. If I didn't, he'd have been outta here a long time ago." Looking up from the book, he smiled. "And if I thought for a second that anything he's observed made you a risk to the program, you'd be gone too. Since you're still wearing wings, I'm obviously looking the other way regarding some of your shenanigans. That's what one fighter jock does for another where I come from. Best you leave it at that."

"Consider it left, sir…but if it isn't that, why am I getting this personal audience?"

The General ignored the question for the moment. "You know, Bellows says some fascinating things about you in here. You're young, smart…good-looking…Tony, do you realize that NASA's public relations office fields more mail from lovesick women addressed to you than any other astronaut? A few even send pictures and in my opinion you could do very well for yourself; at least two have come from bona-fide Hollywood pinup models." Flipping the page, he read a little further and grunted. "Funny thing is…with all that woman-flesh swooning over you, he says you're practically a monk. Other than NASA set-ups and the occasional double with Healey, you hardly even date. You haven't gone out with any woman more than once since Melissa Stone mysteriously dumped you in '65."

Just once, Tony thought, it would be nice to say _'Sir, it's tough to get a second date when my jealous djinni habitually turns my first dates into chimpanzees' _but he resisted the impulse. "Sir, Ms. Stone was in love with another man. Dumping me was the right thing for her to do and I'm not bitter about it. Since then, I've devoted most of my free time to the mission…as I'm sure that file indicates."

"Oh, it does indeed…but you and I both know that's bullshit. Healey is every bit as dedicated as you and his little black book has more numbers in it than the Miami yellow pages. Now, Dr. Bellows can draw his own professional conclusions but I think it's one of two possibilities." Closing the binder, he steepled his fingers. "Major, I think the world of you so you can be honest with me. Just between us, you aren't…you know…a little light in the space boots, are you?"

Were he Roger, Tony was sure he'd have a clever comeback but wittiness wasn't one of his strengths; he almost heard the splat as his jaw hit the floor. "What? Oh…uh, no…hell no, sir," he managed to squeak out. "Uh…Major Healey and I shared a sleeping bag once during arctic survival training, but I assure you we kept our skivvies on. My preference is entirely for the female of the species."

"I didn't doubt it for a second," Peterson chuckled, "but I had to ask. If that's not it, then it must be that some lucky woman has already pinned you to the mat and for some reason you don't want to advertise it. Given how close-mouthed you are, even she might not know. Am I right?"

Tony shook his head. "It's a little more…complicated…than that." Boy, was that the understatement of the century.

"No it isn't," the General gently countered. "Either you're in love or you aren't, and telling the difference is really simple. If you are, letting your guard down so your woman can love you in return…now, that's complicated, at least for people in our business. We tend to hold those who love us at arm's length. We think we're protecting them…from the hazards of our way of life or from inadequacies we know we have but they don't. Hell, if the girl's a friend, maybe we're secretly afraid we'll end up ruining something that already works. I just don't know." Shrugging, he picked up a pencil and idly twirled it. "But I do know this: Whatever the reason, we're wrong. Not to pry, Tony, but…do any of those scenarios fit you?"

Tony was able to hold General Peterson's gaze steadily for a few seconds before dropping his eyes. "I…think they all do."

"This girl of yours…is she the One?"

The young astronaut managed a weak laugh. "Oh…believe me, she's not timid when it comes to that question. If you asked her, she'd insist that she is."

"They all do…but I didn't ask what she thinks. I asked you." With a chuckle, he waved the suddenly-nervous young man off. "It's okay…it isn't any of my business; you don't have to answer. It's just food for thought. But you can at least tell me what she's like? Is she a good woman?"

"What's she like?" Tony repeated, rolling his eyes. "Hell, sir…you should ask what she's NOT like. She's frustrating, jealous, manipulative, crafty, headstrong…" As he thought about it, his expression softened and a hint of a smile found its way to his lips. "She's definitely spontaneous," he chuckled, "and affectionate, enthusiastic, innocent, and devoted. Sir, honestly, she drives me crazy sometimes but yes…she's a wonderful woman." With an amused snort, he pictured Jeannie flouncing happily around the house in scanty harem regalia and added, "She's also, uh, easy on the eyes…very easy. Those pinup models you mentioned would sell their souls to have her face and figure." Sighing, he concluded, "Well, that's Jeannie in a nutshell for you. If that sounds like love, I guess you could say I'm in it."

"Jeannie," Peterson whimsically repeated. "Well…at least I pried your mystery woman's name out of you. That's better than Bellows could do."

Coming clean about his feelings for Jeannie, at least to General Peterson, didn't particularly bother Tony. There had to be hundreds of 'Jeannies' living in central Florida so divulging her name wasn't a risk. And, since she hadn't immediately materialized in her wedding gown with a preacher in tow, she'd apparently missed his declaration…so he was still safely a bachelor, too. "He's never asked," he shrugged. Indicating the binder, he added, "I respect Doctor Bellows, but he's too busy trying to psychoanalyze me to be concerned about anything that mundane." Clearing his throat, he leaned forward in his chair. "Sir, while I appreciate your interest in my love life, or lack thereof, I'm not sure what it has to do with the program."

After a moment lost in thought, the General grunted. "Yeah, about that. Look, Tony, in my book, you're the best astronaut I've got and I want you to know this isn't easy for me. Both Les and Roger are electrical engineers and I put them in the places they can do the most good. But you're an honest-to-god rocket scientist…and I haven't got any rocket problems right now. Thanks in large measure to your hard work I've got a fabulous Saturn booster which is, unfortunately, mated up to a piece of garbage crew package."

That had an ominous ring to it. Tony found it was all he could do not to look too worried.

Closing the binder, Peterson opened a drawer in his desk and removed a sheet of paper. "The Air Force has been pressuring NASA to consider something like this for a while now," he stated as he read over the document. "I've been resisting it…I think it's a bad idea…but since we're stalled for now I don't have a good reason to refuse any more." Holding the sheet out, he motioned for Tony to take it. "Your orders, Major."

All it took was reading the first few lines to leave the astronaut nearly speechless. "I'm…I'm being washed out of the program?" he managed to stammer.

"No," the General firmly corrected, "absolutely not. This is only temporary; consider it part of a media relations campaign. Right now, NASA, Apollo and astronauts are very popular with the public. They've forgotten that most rocket jockeys are also military officers. And you know that our military is involved in other contingencies; one of which is becoming very…unpopular." Sighing, he pushed the desk drawer closed. "The Air Force brass thinks using a famous Apollo astronaut to do a little cross-pollination will help improve their press." Noting the downcast expression on his subordinate's face, he shook his head. "Look, there's no way to sugar-coat it so I'm not going to insult you by trying. I'll only tell you the same thing I was told a quarter-century ago: Salute the flag, go over, do your duty and keep your head low. You're a fantastic pilot…the best I've ever served with…and you'll do fine." Rising, he came around and took the chair next to the slumping officer. Putting a hand on his shoulder, he said, "You're going to come back, Tony, and when you do I promise you this: You will walk on the Moon."

Morosely, Tony nodded. He was an astronaut, but he was an Air Force pilot first. What else was there to say? Looking at his orders once more, he tried to read them completely but the first line kept catching his eye and holding it. It read, 'You are to report on a date to be determined for service in the Republic of Vietnam…'

He was so immersed in the document that it took him a second to realize that General Peterson was still speaking. "…they're slowly phasing Widowmakers out over there so you'll need to get rated in the Phantom II. We'll set that up so you can do it here…"

"I've…I've got some unofficial stick time in the Phantom," Tony woodenly mumbled, "they fly like overpowered bricks but they're more forgiving than NASA's F-104s. I'll…uh, probably need to brush up on the systems and flight dynamics a little before testing out." Dropping his eyes, he continued, "I'll also need a little time to put my affairs here in order…"

"That can be arranged," the General sympathetically replied. "The Air Force understands that all this will take time to put together. No one's expecting you to leave tomorrow." Tapping on his chair arm, he paused for a moment. "I…uh, look…about your love life. I wanted to know if you had someone you were serious about because I've been where you are. An unexpected hit like this has a ripple effect and your girl…Jeannie…will take it just as hard, maybe even harder, than you. Speaking man to man instead of General to Major, can I give you some advice?"

Again, what else could he say? "Feel free, sir."

"If you've never told her how much you love her…uh, take it from me; now is the time. Don't assume she automatically knows where she stands and don't leave without letting her hear the words. If she's human she'll be hurting, and telling her how important a part of your life she is…well, it's not much in the way of comfort, but she'll understand you're with her during the bad times. And saying them will help you, too."

Tony just about had a heart attack. _Oh, hell…Jeannie…what am I going to do about you?_

_**To Be Continued…**_


End file.
